


we stood so long we fell

by ndnickerson



Category: Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nancy visits Emerson for the Winter Carnival and stumbles into a case, which doesn't matter quite so much as being locked in a museum with Ned all night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we stood so long we fell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [centuries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/centuries/gifts).



> Title is from "10 Mile Stereo" by Beach House.

Ned Nickerson punches his pillow and rolls over. His psychology textbook slides off the bed with a relatively muffled thump. It's pitch black outside but he's never felt more awake.

Nancy Drew is three floors away, two doors down, in the guest rooms at Omega Chi.

He is supposed to be studying. He has two finals tomorrow and two more the day after that. Then he and Nancy will have all the time in the world, to go skating on the freshly tested frozen lake, to attend the Winter Carnival, to go to the Winter Dance.

He can't stop thinking about her. He can't stop thinking about walking down to her room, maybe with two mugs of hot chocolate, and seeing what happens.

It started at dinner, when Burt nudged him and said he was sure Ned would be bleary-eyed and exhausted for his exam in the morning. Then Nancy called her father to let him know that she had arrived safely and her room at Omega Chi was great, as usual.

Nancy's father actually trusts him to not do anything while Nancy's staying in his fraternity house. On the one hand, it's a vote of immense confidence. On the other hand, Ned can't help but see it as Carson judging him no threat whatsoever. She has no chaperone. She's there, all by herself. Probably in some pale frilly nightgown.

No. No. Ned flips the pillow over and buries his face in it, groaning.

She will be gorgeous at the dance. She will twirl and laugh, her perfect lips waiting to be kissed, and maybe they will happen into mistletoe, and maybe they won't. Either way, when he escorts her to her door at the end of the night, they will exchange a kiss that's only-slightly-better-than-immediate-family and he'll go back to his room and think about what he wants to do to her.

He's tired of fantasizing and dreaming and cold showers.

\--

He is indeed exhausted and bleary-eyed for his psych exam, and it only gets worse. He reads the question about oral fixation and remembers her chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pencil. Then he imagines the tip of that pink tongue flicking out and has to imagine his fourth grade music instructor to calm down.

"Do well, Mr. Nickerson?"

Ned can only manage a thin, sickly smile as he hands in his blue book and test, heading off to find his girlfriend.

The campus is a sea of white. The latest snowfall is capped in a hard crust that crunches, yielding under his boots, leaving depressions to mark his path. He shifts his backpack up, pulling the zipper on his coat an inch higher to block out more of the cold. His breath is visible, and the air burns when it hits his throat.

Nancy is waiting for him in the student lounge. When he walks in she immediately launches herself into his arms, her cheeks still flushed from the cold, a bright scarf still knotted around her neck. He can feel the contours of her body through her heavy winter coat, and thinks to himself, firmly, _down, boy_.

"I went over to the museum," she says, her blue eyes sparkling, and before she even finishes, he already knows what she's going to say. "There have been some break-ins! And in January the Van Gogh sketch exhibit is coming through and the museum's curator is afraid that someone is trying to find the flaws in his security system first, and—"

"And you volunteered to help."

"Well, yes," she says, giving him that almost-sideways glance, the one through her eyelashes, the one that can turn his resolve to jelly. "And you will help me, right? I know you need to study, we can study, I can help—"

"Okay, okay," he sighs, and she grins at him and hugs him again and yes, definitely, he wants to lift her by the waist and find a broom closet and kiss her senseless. At first, anyway. "Just let me take my chem exam first."

She plants a smacking kiss on his cheek. "You're a great boyfriend."

He chuckles in response, glad she can't see what's going on in his head.

\--

"What are you wearing?"

Ned startles, whipping around to face her. Apparently her extremely quiet knock on his door didn't get his attention. "Uh, black, I guess."

She's never actually seen his room before. She managed to waste time during his exam, smile and fake polite conversation over dinner, but now she's almost bouncing up and down with excitement, impatient and eager to get over to the museum. A haphazard pile of clothes that may or may not have a hamper beneath it spills in front of his closet door. His desk is a scatter of pencils, notebooks, and highlighters. An Emerson pennant hangs over his bed.

His bed is pretty small, she notices, before turning her gaze back to his. He's caught her looking. He almost looks like he's about to lick his lips.

She's probably reading too much into this. She's keyed up and her blood feels hot. She's already in black, a form-fitting long-sleeved shirt and soft black pants in case she needs to sneak up behind a suspect.

"I'll be right downstairs."

"I can wait." She gives him a little grin before turning to face the hallway.

Most of the students are inside, but those lucky few who managed to finish their exams early or are sick of studying are shouting to each other across the ice on the pond, laughing when they fall, their skates reporting off the ice with each smooth stride. She and Ned aren't holding hands - through gloves, it would just be a gesture - and his dark red backpack is slung across one shoulder. The wind ruffles his hair and he groans, reaching for his cap. Now he looks even more like an amateur cat burglar.

"What exams do you have tomorrow?"

Sometimes, when Ned looks over at her, his expression is almost pained, in a way she can't quite describe. Now is one of those times and she feels some answering unsteadiness in her belly, and smiles. 

"Lit and history."

"That's tough," she says sympathetically.

"And how would you know?" He has a smile in his voice. "When are you going to settle down and go to college, Miss Drew?"

"When I'm tired of mysteries."

"So, never."

She bumps her shoulder against his. "I don't know. There's just so much out there that I can't bear the thought of being tied somewhere for so long, you know?"

He shakes his head. "There _is_ so much out there. But with the Secret Service, they actually _pay_ you to go there."

"So that's your plan this week?" She can't help it. He comes up with a new idea every week.

"You think I'm not up for it? You're practically like Secret Service training camp, all by yourself."

The museum is a small building, one story, on the other side of the art studios. Sometimes the college holds benefit dinners, and on those nights the stone plaza in front looks like a sea of white linen and candlelight, or so she's been told. The Emerson Woods stand behind it, and it makes a lovely picture.

"Okay. Now what?"

"Now," she slips a hand into a pocket and pulls out a lockpick kit, "we go inside and wait."

\--

The main gallery is, of course, right in the middle of the museum. It stands empty, although an enormous washed-out predominantly blue portrait of a rather wistful-looking girl clad mostly in diaphanous tulle takes up most of one wall. The frame is as thick as Ned's wrist. Through the large open archway stand the lobby, the specially-tinted plate-glass windows, shades open. The snow gleams a pale blue-white under the feeble light of a pair of streetlamps. Behind the ticket counter Ned can see a half-drunk bottle of soda, left by the last student cashier, the cap carefully forced back into place by a thumb.

He didn't quite expect to be creeped out. He and Nancy did a quick patrol of the perimeter and all points of attack from the outside, and introduced themselves to the night watchman. Now Nancy is trying the doors and windows and Ned has his books and notes spread out all around him. Tomorrow morning is the final for American Lit II. Fifteen works of short fiction. He's reviewing the first one, and has been for the five minutes Nancy has been gone. He's gotten through one sentence.

"Okay."

That's the second time today she's managed to sneak up on him. Ned manages a casual turn. "So how many points do we need to watch?"

She pops out a hip and puts her hand on it, her expression thoughtful. "I don't know. If they have a torch they could probably cut through—"

Ned's eyes widen. "And how are they supposed to fix that problem?"

"Oh, fine. Six windows not including the plate glass out front, which is a little too obvious. The back door is pretty sturdy."

"What have they got inside?"

They go over a few scenarios. Nancy sits down on the floor facing him with the portrait at her back and sweeps her hair back over her shoulders and folds her legs. The floor is cold concrete, cold where it touches his skin. She rests the heel of her hand against it and draws it back just as quickly, idly brushing at her palm. It's cold enough to bring up gooseflesh and he catches himself wondering if the heat will even be on tonight.

She—her hair, her eyes, even the pale luminous skin of her face—are all so vivid against that washed-out portrait. Her hair is red-gold, darker now than it was when they met; her eyes are the most perfect shade of sapphire-deep blue. He's known her almost a year, even though it feels like forever, and all his frat brothers are convinced that they have been sleeping together, and they are all fiercely protective of her when other guys flirt with her.

Tonight will be the longest stretch of time they have spent alone together. For all the conversations they've had, all the times he's even barely hinted that he wants to spend the rest of his life with her, he still feels like they haven't talked enough, haven't talked nearly enough, that he never wants to stop gazing at her.

"—and we really need to build a moat to protect the museum from rogue robot attack," she finishes, bemused. "Ned? Earth to Ned."

"Sorry."

"All those books getting to you?" She nods at the textbooks, the scrawl on ragged paper surrounding him.

"Yeah. That's what it is."

"Maybe we should take a walk."

He glances down at the books, shrugs, and leaves them where they are. Only his footsteps echo through the empty gallery; she is just as noiseless as ever, her steps light. The other exhibition rooms are unoccupied, a few student collages or statues holding the space. Then she slides back into her coat and he twines his scarf back around his neck and grabs her hand before she can put on her gloves, and she glances over at him before pushing open the outer door, pausing only to lock it behind them.

"It's a beautiful campus."

He nods. "And it'll be a good promotion, to get such a great exhibit here."

"Yeah." She tightens her grip on his hand and points out the various windows, a skylight the curator dismissed that she's still worried about. All the while he can feel his face, his skin, all exposed flesh growing colder and colder.

"Here. Boost me."

"Nancy, you are not going up on that roof."

"We're supposed to be thorough. Or do you want to do it."

He's not sure why they're whispering. This side of campus is the furthest from Emersonville, the furthest from the dorms and student unions and libraries; he can only just see the palest halo of light from the skating pond. 

"Nancy."

She shoots him a look and then she's dropped his hand and she's running toward the roof, and it strikes him, suddenly, how cold she has to be. Her shoes have barely any substance.

Feeling like an elephant as he crashes through her trail, he manages to catch her just as she's leapt, with casual grace, up to grasp the edge of the roof, no gloves on, the tips of her hair flying.

"At least let me give you a boost. And if you break your leg and your dad asks, I had nothing to do with this."

"Is that all you're afraid of?"

He opens his mouth to respond and she fits her small foot into his clasped hands and scrambles up on the roof.

"Go inside and wait for me." She tosses down a small keyring, and then she's out of sight, and he puts the mental image of her sliding off the roof out of his head.

For the entire three minutes it takes her to pry the cover off the skylight, Ned paces from the door to the room directly beneath, waiting for a scream, a crash, possibly the wrath of God. He raids the housekeeper's closet and finds a wrench and when the metal screams in protest and gives under her ministrations, he's standing underneath the skylight, scarf and coat still on, inexplicable wrench in his hand.

"Hey—"

"Be careful."

"I _am_ ," she hisses back, and manages to catch the edge and pull it with her so that the cover flips down just as she practically jackknifes through the narrow opening. She winces as the lid falls into place on her fingertips and he runs back to the housekeeper's closet as she says, "So it would take two people—"

"And no one in their right _minds_ would do this," he returns, carrying a ladder. He positions it under her and climbs as fast as he can, reaching for her. "Okay, very gently."

Her hips are just out of his reach. She takes a breath and lets go and he grabs her, his hands shaking, and she slides down. By the time she stops her belly is on level with his lips and she's panting and her hands on his shoulders are so, so cold.

"You're going to get yourself killed one of these days."

She catches her breath. "Not as long as you're here to catch me."

He puts her down at the very top of the ladder, then starts back down to the floor, stealing glances at her. While he's still amazed that she did it, he can't help but admire her for it, the blaze of color in her cheeks, the high laughter in her voice.

Once they're both on the floor, her hand brushes his. "God," he says, taking her hands, rubbing them between his. "Aren't you freezing?"

"A little."

"Nan..." he shakes his head.

"Keep clucking over me," she advises, raising an eyebrow. "It's really hot."

It's that quietly mocking tone in her voice that does it, that and his fear at seeing her dangling a good ten feet above the floor. He grabs her wrist and brings her hand up to his face, breathing on her fingertips, kissing her palm. He takes her other hand and slips it into his back pocket, her fingers splayed against his ass and cold even through the fabric, and his lips brush the pulse point in her wrist and she sighs, her gaze heavy-lidded.

"My mouth's a little cold too," she says, and she barely has the last syllable out before he has his mouth crushed to hers.

\--

They knock the ladder over, and thankfully the gallery is so empty that Ned catches it before it hits the floor or anything else, and Nancy has her hands in his back pockets and she's giggling because his body is pressed to hers and his breath is against her ear and she is shocked at how liquid she suddenly feels.

"I can't believe this," she whispers.

"Believe what?"

They disentangle long enough to take the ladder back to where Ned found it, and as soon as he has it wedged safely back into a corner, his hands are on her again. Without waiting for a response he has her back against the doorframe and his mouth is on hers again.

His mouth, his entire mouth. Tongue and everything. She mimics the swirl of his tongue against hers and he picks her up so their hips are even and she giggles.

He tilts his chin back and his forehead touches hers. "Believe what?" he repeats, panting a little.

"This," she replies, and her back is arched. Every inch of her skin wants to find contact with his. Every bit of her. It's like being drunk. "You. That you... that you're like this."

"What?" The expression on his face is incredulous. "From almost the first second I saw you, I haven't been able to get this..." He manages to indicate them with the merest stroke of his hands over the small of her back and she shivers a little, and doesn't miss that sudden flash of almost pleased pain on his face. "You, out of my head."

"There have been so many times that I just wanted to..." She tilts her face up, reaching up in his arms, and her legs are twined around his and when their mouths touch again, their kiss deepens until her spine is tingling and she's restless in his embrace.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because you never seemed like you wanted..."

"Me? _You_ never—"

Another laugh bubbles up in her. "You kissed like you were afraid of breaking me."

He lets her down and she takes his hand, leading him back into the main hall. He glances at those picture windows, and outside another dusting of snow is falling, so quiet neither of them noticed.

"I don't know about you, but what I have in mind doesn't involve those blinds being open."

"Very smooth, Nickerson."

As they close the blinds, he sighs. "I—can I just say..."

Absently, on her way back to him, she tests the door. The handle is ice-cold against her hand. "Sure."

"You are incredibly, intimidatingly beautiful. And your dad? He could end me."

"And you're going to go back in there and be a good boy and study—"

She knows she's pouting. She doesn't care. She especially doesn't care when he turns her around and presses his mouth to hers again.

"Not on your life."

They end up back in the main gallery, although she has no idea how. His hands are just barely under her shirt and he shivers when she touches his bare skin with her too-cold hands.

"You have _got_ to warm up."

She nods, holding his gaze. "And yet I really, _really_ think I need to get out of these clothes."

He groans. "Tease."

"Was that a dare?"

Her eyebrows are up. His rise in response. "Chicken?"

"Don't you mean pussy," she replies, and his eyes couldn't possibly get any wider. Not until she hooks her still-freezing hands in the hem of her shirt and pulls it smoothly over her head, revealing her (disappointingly plain white) bra.

"Obviously I fell asleep about an hour ago," Ned sighs, kissing her again, wrapping his arms around her, and she presses her breasts to his chest and buries her hands in his hair, against his warm scalp, and he shivers.

"So you're dreaming—"

"Can't be. You'd be naked." He readjusts, boosting her in his arms, pulling her up so his lips can brush the base of her throat, the join of her neck and shoulder, her bra strap.

"That can be arranged." She means it to come out as a seductive purr. Instead, she sounds almost pleading.

"Now you're just a liar."

She really, really wants to take her bra off, especially when his lips close over one particular place on her neck and he sucks gently and she wants to just wrap herself around him. It seems incredibly unfair that he still has any clothes on.

"Reverse psychology," she says approvingly. "So you did learn something this semester."

"I could even mumble some bad American poetry at you."

"Be still my heart."

Her heart is anything but still. He hesitates, a little, his fingertips tracing a tapped line up her spine, after he puts her back down. He finds the hook at the back of her bra and pulls back until their gazes meet.

"You're still so cold."

She swallows. "Maybe we should zip the sleeping bags together."

\--

They split one of the sodas he brought as a midnight snack and don't talk about the sleeping bags zipped and obvious beside them. She takes off her shoes but leaves her socks on and he slides out of his boots, and when he kisses her then their mouths are slick with the sweetness and hot with desire.

"So—believe me, I really don't want to bring this up—no more patrolling tonight?"

She shrugs. "It's an inside job. It has to be. There are a few people it could be but all of them know I'm here tonight and they won't try anything. Or I'm wrong." She takes another sip and his gaze traces the slim line of her throat.

And then she shivers, once, and he reaches for her, drawing her into his arms, so that she straddles his lap.

"I—I didn't bring any—anything."

She just holds his gaze for a long moment. "I did."

Ned chuckles incredulously. "I shouldn't be surprised, should I."

"I put a lot of thought into this."

"I can see that."

She raises an eyebrow. "You're mocking me."

"Am not. Definitely am not." He tilts his chin down and kisses her, again, again, until she's melting in his arms. "So can I stop thinking about my fourth grade music teacher?"

"Why would you—"

"Don't ask."

Once they crawl into the sleeping bag, they struggle out of their clothes. Her pants join her shirt and coat, and he has to wrestle himself out of his jeans. As soon as he tosses them away, sighing in relief, she rolls over and she's straddling him and her inner thighs are hot against his hips and he's going to lose his mind, burn in hell, or both.

"Yes," he groans, drawing her down to him. She slips her tongue into his mouth and he unfastens her bra and she shrugs a little so that the straps slide down her arms. Then he pulls her bra off and tosses it out of easy reach and immediately his hands are on her breasts, cupping them, squeezing them, and she lets out a low soft moan, her hips brushing just once, hard, against his.

"More," he mumbles, and it's barely a question but she nods slowly and he rubs her nipples a little, squeezes them gently with the pads of his fingers, and she shivers, letting out a little whimper.

"Nan."

"Yeah." She sounds almost drowsy, but he can feel her heart racing against his touch.

"Whatever you have with you, I think you'd better get pretty soon."

She nods and begins to slide off him, and then just briefly her breasts are on level with his face and he takes her shoulders, draws her down, sucking a nipple into his mouth. With a soft cry she spreads her knees and arches into it.

"You have to promise," she's gasping, her breath is ragged, "to keep doing that when I get back."

He lets her go, smiling.

\--

She notices that the first time he says he loves her is just after she's taken her underwear off and slid, naked, back into their sleeping bags. She notices the seeming ease he has in putting the condom on. She notices how much attention he lavishes on her breasts and how the cold air still makes gooseflesh rise on her shoulders and down her arms, how his gaze flicks up to hers when he uses his teeth against her nipples, on the tender undersides of her breasts, down her belly.

She notices that he is very, very aroused and he likes it very much when she kisses his earlobes, his neck, his shoulder, his nipples, but when her hand strays too low on his stomach he hisses and leads her hand away.

"Let me touch you," she whispers, her lips against his neck.

He shakes his head, his hips low between her legs to hold her knees apart.

"Why," she murmurs, shuddering as he trails his fingertips in swirls and curves over her belly, down her thighs, teasing but not quite touching her, not where she feels tight and shivery. 

"Because it's taking everything I have not to explode as it is," he explains, softly.

"So you know what you're doing."

He shakes his head and bites her lower lip gently, drawing in a sharp breath when she rakes her nails down his back. "Kind of. You?"

Her hips rise impatiently when he barely brushes his knuckles between her thighs. "I was just happy to be able to find condoms," she says, tilting her head back. "The rest is up to you."

He nods, slowly. "Do you want to have sex?"

She bites her lip. "A good girl would say no."

"A good girl doesn't carry around a lockpick kit." And then he shifts and barely brushes her thigh and she feels something clench deep between her thighs.

"I want you."

He touches her, then, and the sensation is so shockingly intense that she trembles under him, her legs fluttering. Her hands run down his muscular back, his arms, his hips, and she gasps when his finger—

She sobs out in delight when he touches her in that specific place. "There?" he asks, drawing a circle around it with his fingertip, and she slides her legs around his hips, opening her thighs wide to give him better access, grinding in frustration.

"Must be."

"Yes yes oh God please," she whimpers, arching. "Oh my God that feels so good."

He chuckles as she writhes under him, hating that he can think straight. "You have to be wet."

"I..." All she can understand is his touch. Her blood is roaring in her ears and the very tips of her nipples are sensitive as they brush against his chest and if he doesn't stop, she'll lose her mind, she's sure of it, even though she wants to beg him to keep going.

Then he slides his finger down lower, down, working between her thighs, and then he reaches so low and lets out a low pleased groan. "Fuck yes you're wet."

"Please," she whispers, and she doesn't know what she's asking for.

His finger presses down, and then deeper, deeper, and then his finger is between her thighs up to the knuckle and she holds herself so still, so perfectly still, until he slides another finger in with the first and slides his thumb up and then, it's terribly embarrassing, how her hips rock and how profanely, how desperately she begs for him.

"Last chance."

She's gasping. His expression is one of intense concentration, almost pain. "If you stop now," she pants, as her hips grind into him even harder, "I'll kill you with my bare hands."

"I heard this will hurt for you. I'm sorry."

"Y—"

 _Yeah_ , she swallows, as Ned pulls his fingers out of her and then squirms his hips and barely, just barely, only a little bit of him is inside her.

And then he shifts, so gently.

In the old movies, she imagines, this is where the music swells and everything fades to black and the heroine, magically back in a white frilly nightgown, stretches as she wakes in the morning. She is entirely out of her depth, shuddering against his every touch, afraid and trembling and in gasping incredulous awe at this. He wants her. He had touched her with such hesitant reverence that she had doubted it, had wondered if her curiosity and desire were hers alone. With every brush of his fingers she contracts and expands so violently, and then he lowers himself to her and she kisses his Adam's apple and he pushes her knees up and apart.

"I love you."

"I love you too," he whispers, and then he's inside her.

\--

His notes are scattered like enormous snowflakes all over the floor from where they managed to roll over them. His knees are sore and the taste of her is still in his mouth and he's pretty sure a few places on his back are scratched raw from her nails. 

He wants nothing more than to pull her into his arms and fall asleep, but he has to study, and, besides, once they had both gasped their breath back they made out for another twenty minutes, her fingertips delicately tracing over him, exploring him, marveling at his abs, the saddle of flesh from his hips below his navel, his cock. At one point he pinned her under him and found the ticklish spot in her neck and kissed her there until she was writhing and laughing under him. Then he found the places that made her breathing speed up and her hands grope over him, the way she likes him to suckle her nipples, the spots on her thigh that make her jump and shiver when he touches them.

When she walks back in she's fully dressed and her hair is pulled back, and she's carrying a letter. He heard the soft scratching of her lockpicks at the office doors as she broke into them. "Read this."

"An insurance inquiry."

She nods. "I think I can get this solved before your last exam. So we can get back to... having some alone time."

"Speaking of alone time, if I don't pass this lit exam I'll be in summer school and that definitely means less alone time."

"Well then."

She sits down on the floor and his notes are finally back in order and, if not for that hickey on her neck, if not for the memory of her gasping cry when he thrust into her that last time and let himself go, it would be like it never happened.

"Post-war."

"Post-war. Right." She flips through his textbook and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He knows what the skin there tastes like.

"Did you have anything in mind for after the Winter Dance?"

She doesn't even so much as glance up at him, but he can hear the smile in her voice, can hear again the breathless squeal she made when his thumb brushed that button of wet flesh between her thighs, and he twitches in response.

"I don't know, but I was thinking that my bed at the frat is about twice as big as yours."

He takes a deep breath and looks down at his notes again. He's going to fail this final if he's not careful.

But, even if he does, she's worth it.


End file.
